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Donde termina el arco iris, en tu alma o en el horizonte? Where does the rainbow end, in your soul or on the horizon?

Pablo Neruda

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Pablo Neruda
Age: 69 †
Born: 1904
Born: July 12
Died: 1973
Died: September 23
Author
Autobiographer
Diplomat
Lyricist
Poet
Politician
Senator Of Chile
Nieh-lu-ta
Neftalí Reyes Basoalto
Pamplo Nerouda
Neftalí Ricardo Reyes
Bāblū Nīrūdā
Neftalí Ricardo Reyes Basoalto
Nieluda
Neftali Ricardo Reyes Basoalto
Neftali Reyes Basualto
Neftali Reyes Basoalto
Neftali Ricardo Reyes
Neftalí Reyes Basualto
Pāplō Nerūda
Doe
Soul
Iris
Alma
Irises
Rainbow
Horizon
Ends

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I want to do for you what the spring does for the cherry trees
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Who do I belong to? How come I mortgaged my being till I don't belong to myself? How come I sold my blood? And who now owns my indecisions, my hands, my private pain, my pride?
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O merry, merry, merry, like only dogs know how to be happy and nothing more, with an absolute shameless nature.
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Who writes your name in letters of smoke among the stars of the south? Oh let me remember you as you were before you existed.
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From scarlet to powdered gold, to blazing yellow, to the rare ashen emerald, to the orange and black velvet of your shimmering corselet, out to the tip that like an amber thorn begins you, small, superlative being, you are a miracle, and you blaze
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What did the tree learn from the earth to be able to talk with the sky?
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I walked around as you do, investigating the endless star, and in my net, during the night, I woke up naked, the only thing caught, a fish trapped inside the wind.
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Green was the silence, wet was the light, the month of June trembled like a butterfly.
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How you must have suffered getting accustomed to me, my savage, solitary soul, my name that sends them all running. So many times we have seen the morning star burn, kissing our eyes, and over our heads the grey light unwinds in turning fans.
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I will bring you flowers from the mountains, bluebells, dark hazels, and rustic baskets of kisses. I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.
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I say love, and the world populates itself with doves.
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With which stars do they go on speaking,the rivers that never reach the sea?
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Love, what a long way, to arrive at a kiss.
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For now I ask no more Than the justice of eating.
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As slippery as smooth grapes, words exploding in the light like dormant seeds waiting in the vaults of vocabulary, alive again, and giving life: once again the heart distills them.
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The tomato offers its gift of fiery color and cool completeness.
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Love has to be…flowering like the stars, and measureless as a kiss.
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I stood on the balcony dark with mourning... hoping the earth would spread its wings in my uninhabited love.
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I think it was very informative, but a lot still needs to be done.
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Only a burning patience will lead to the attainment of a splendid happiness.
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